


Please, Let It Be A Dream...

by poeticapayge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hangovers From Hell, M/M, Post- TRF, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticapayge/pseuds/poeticapayge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up with a mystery man in his bed. Angsty feels to follow. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mystery Man

The solid, warm form next to me was disconcerting, seeing as I didn’t remember bedding anyone the previous evening. Although that may have stemmed from the fact that I spent the entirety of last night in true Watson fashion, completely and totally pissed. That did not change the shallow, peaceful breaths of my anonymous bed partner against the side of my chest. I might have sat up and turned to look if I hadn’t become suddenly, painfully aware of the massive hangover that had been brewing in my skull while I tried to fill in some of the blanks from the previous evening, but the splitting headache that now rested firmly between my eyes made anything but the slightest movement to cover my eyes from the faint London light streaming in from my bedroom window all but impossible. I could have lain there like that all day, or at least until the headache subsided, if it were not for the faint baritone sigh that echoed in my head. I froze. 

That’s not possible, I whispered in my head. He’s been dead for two years, now. I bloody well watched the git jump. Now I’m fantasizing that he’s here, in my flat, and my bed? Oh great, I thought with a small modicum of hope that it was all just a dream, I’m a nutter. I’ve gone round the bend, off my rocker, completely and utterly bonkers! The illusion of a dream was shattered when a long, lithe, most decidedly male form curled up with the only viable heat source in the room, me. I stiffened in response to the tactile stimulation, silently thanking and cursing whatever God would listen for it not being a dream. I mentally slapped myself, wincing as though I had actually lifted a hand. Calm down, John. There’s absolutely no way that that’s Sher-. I couldn’t even bring myself to think that name. Hearing other people say it these years since the… fall, brought with it an overwhelming sense of depression and guilt. I resigned myself to accepting my mental breakdown and having brought a strange man to my bed. I’m a nutter, and that’s okay. It isn’t him. I almost believed myself when my guest awoke and spoke.

“Good morning, John,” the unmistakable baritone purr of my recently not-so-deceased friend and flatmate was like a shot of ice water through my veins. I froze like a statue, arm tossed over my eyes, but with that simple sentence, I couldn’t delude myself any more. Ignoring my pounding headache, I opened my eyes and looked. 

The sight I was presented with would have been devastating enough had it been just Sher… Nope, still couldn’t do the name. It would have been bad enough had it been just him. All perfect hair and cupid’s bow pout with cheekbones sharp as razors. But no, he looked completely debauched. It was painfully obvious that his night had consisted of rough, naughty fucking. I ran through a checklist of gay sex side effects. No sore arse, no dried semen anywhere on me, dry hands… Unless they’re on him, we did not have sex last night. It would be my bloody luck to shag someone as incredible as Sherlock Holmes and not remember a minute of it. For the record, I gave up the ‘not gay’ argument as soon as people saw me weeping like an infant at his funeral. Too much work. 

“Sher- Sherlock?” I whispered, almost too quiet for him to hear. “Did we? Oh dear god, please let this be a dream,”

Something like pain flashed across his face as he opened his perfect mouth to answer. “So you don’t remember last night?” 

“Let’s just start with the you not being dead, shall we? Then we’ll work our way into what I do and do not remember from last night,” I said, slightly annoyed and completely worried about what the next few hours were going to entail. The newly non-deceased Sherlock nodded his head curtly. 

“Tea then?” I hung my head at the distraught tone in his voice. 

“Yeah. Tea,” I said quietly to the ground.


	2. Trying to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to remember what the hell happened last night and Sherlock makes tea.

The kitchen of my flat was smaller than 221B, so the two of us trying to make tea was near impossible. Especially with me trying to stay as far away from Sherlock as physically possible. My hands were trembling so violently I nearly dropped both mugs and the teapot. In the end, he confiscated the tea making supplies and banished me to the sitting room. I sat very carefully on the threadbare grey couch resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. Trying to stop the shaking was not going well, but I managed to control it enough so I didn’t start seizing on the couch. I spent that time trying to remember what the hell happened to me, but it was like looking through a jar of mud. There was a blurry blank where last night should have been. The last thing I remembered was going into the pub around the corner with Greg. 

_"Hey, mate. How you been?" Greg asked me as I sat down at our usual table in the back._

_"Been good, Greg. Well, as I can be anyway. You know... How's the wife?" I raised my hand to the bartender for my usual. He nodded and went about getting my drink._

_"We've been divorced for two months now, John. I told you that last week."_

_"Of course you did, mate. I'm sorry," The bartender arrived with my beer and I took a long pull._

_"S'alright. I know you've been having it rough the past few years what with Sherlock and all. Dunno why you didn't just give up Baker Street all together, though."_

_"I couldn't just let all of his stuff disappear, Greg. And Mrs. Hudson wasn't too keen on having anyone else live there. It killed me to leave, but it killed me even more staying there with all the ghosts."_

_"I get it, man. I really do, but don't you think it's time to move on?" By that time I had finished my beer and signaled for another one._

_"Probably, Greg, but I can't just... I just can't, okay?" The second beer arrived and I caught the bartender by the arm, "Something a little stronger next please? Whiskey on the rocks."_

_"Ta, mate," came the curt reply as he stalked back to the bar._

Three or four whiskeys in is where the memory started getting fuzzy. Greg and I had made some more small talk about weather and cases and the surgery. We had avoided talk of Sherlock like the plague after the brief interlude at the beginning of the night. Getting up from the table and settling my tab was when it went totally black. Greg must have hailed me a cab and walked me up the stairs. Being piss drunk and stairs do not mix, and seeing as I didn't have any bruises on my shins that seemed to be the best explanation. I tried looking past the tab, but I was only met with a fuzzy blankness. 

"John? Your tea?" the soft voice in my ear brought me back to my living room. Sherlock set the cup down on the square, mahogany (gift from Mycroft after the funeral, didn't have the heart to burn it) coffee table and tried to set his hand on my shoulder. I recoiled from the touch reflexively and he jerked his hand back as if I had burned him. I felt instantly guilty for making him feel bad, but that got tamped down quickly because the bastard faked his fucking death and left me alone for two bloody years! 

"Why?" My hands trembled over my eyes and my voice cracked. I felt like I was going to break down in tears right there, but I gritted my teeth and waited for the anger spike to die. 

"You were shaking so badly, John. I didn't want you to drop the mugs considering they were probably the only two in this little-"

"Not why were you making tea, Sherlock. Why aren't you dead? I saw you jump. I felt your pulse. I watched your blood pool on the sidewalk. I got bloody flowers from fucking Mycroft for fuck's sake!” I paused for breath and to calm down just a bit. I was so close to hyperventilating I felt light headed. My blood felt like it was full of ice, but it melted, if only a little, at the alarmed look plastered on the perfect features of my former flatmate.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something then closed it like he changed his mind last second. I couldn’t believe I, John Watson, had made the great Sherlock Holmes speechless. I gingerly picked up my tea mug from the table and took half a sip of my already cold tea. Two sugars and a splash of milk. Just the way I liked it. It would be like him to remember how I liked my tea, even if he never made it for me. I was about to start my rant anew when he finally spoke up.

“For you, John,” he whispered, “For you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. That’s why I did it. He was going to kill you. Moriarty had snipers waiting to kill all of you on his command if I didn’t and I just couldn’t… I couldn’t let them hurt you John. There were thirteen possibilities when I got to the roof of St. Bart’s as to what was going to happen with Jim, so when the possibilities narrowed as the bullet entered his brain, I texted Mycroft the plan and-“

“Mycroft? You told Mycroft? I spent two years in hell when Mycroft knew you were alive? The… The bastard sent me flowers. Who else did you tell?” The trembling returned in earnest.

“John… I didn’t… Nobody told me…” He avoided my gaze as it all but bore holes in his alabaster skin.

“Who. Else. Knew?”

“Molly and few members of my homeless network,” Sherlock hung his head and his ruined curls flopped over his eyes. I had only just noticed that his hair was at least two inches longer than it was two years ago and he had a bit of stubble dusting his chin. I liked that look on him. Damn! I’m mad at him! I’m not supposed to be drooling over that perfect face. I mentally slapped myself and remembered that he had told others of his not dead-ness, “John? Did you hear me?”

“Molly, Mycroft, and half the bloody homeless people in London. Yeah. I heard you,” I said through gritted teeth. By the time this was over, I would probably need to see a dentist to replace my fillings.

“And Lestrade probably knew too, considering his relationship with my brother,” he added nonchalantly.


	3. The Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is beyond angry at Sherlock's confession. He is an expert at keeping his temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that it took so long to update. Real life stepped in in April, and since then I've been one big ball of writer's block. Hopefully the chapters will flow more easily from now on. Thank you for your patience! :)

I was trying to find the right words to express my severe displeasure at the news, but nothing but a strangled choke made it past my lips. I couldn't believe that one of my closest friends, probably the only one who really knew about how badly Sherlock's death had screwed me up, had blatantly lied to my face and pretended it was all well and bloody good. I was beyond furious, desperate to let Captain Watson, soldier, take over and beat the lanky angel in front of me to a bloody pulp, but in the face of my anger I was alarmingly calm. My hands were gripping my knees to the point of bruising, but they weren't shaking. Sherlock seemed to notice my white knuckle grip, and moved to do something, but thought better of it and settled for asking me instead.

“John, are you angry at me?” his timid question squeaked from between his lips.

“I'm fucking furious,” I said evenly to the floor, “I'm actually debating whether or not I should lose my temper and beat you senseless. I have not, however, made up my mind to do so yet, so I am going to stay very still just now and if I say move, you will need to get out of my reach. Do you understand me, Sherlock?” I lifted my eyes and watched him nod meekly.

All of a sudden, an image from the night before slammed into my brain. It was dark and blurry, but the voices were clear.

_“John, we should probably get you home,” Greg's voice had been very close to my ear, and I assumed he was semi-carrying my inebriated self._

_“I- I don't wanna go h-home,” my voice was slurred to the past the point of unintelligence, “too- too many ghosts at home,” I had followed._

_“Wasn't talking about Baker Street, mate. C'mon,” Greg had sighed loudly in my ear and I felt a pang of sadness._

_“Wh-why not Baker Street? Told Sherlock that I'd- I'd let him observe me next time I was ineribated, inberiated,drunk,” I could feel shaking and the rough laughter of my support._

_“You really must be pissed if you don't remember. John, did you forget that Sherlock is--” Greg's voice stopped mid sentence and I felt his grip loosen. I was jostled and a new, larger set of hands were holding me up. A familiar, throaty laugh sounded around me and I felt the corners of my lip turn up._

I focused on the present as the flashback subsided and a very concerned looking detective was hovering over me, checking my pulse and assuring my breathing. His hands were warm against my neck and fought the urge to lean into them. I was still furious and was determined to show no weakness until I got my answers.

“John, are you alright?” A worried edge had crept into Sherlock's tone as his hands fluttered around me.

“Step back now, Sherlock. Still deciding,”I warned and nodded as he retreated back to the chair opposite me, “If you must know, I just remembered a bit of last night. You were at the bar last night weren't you?” I cocked an eyebrow at him in expectation.

“Indeed, John. Lestrade had texted me about your discussion earlier that evening and advised me to cut my task short. Little did he know, I was already on my way back to the city and the job had been completed,” Sherlock said with his usual air of self-importance.

“Job? What job?” I was thoroughly confused when he launched into his tale of heroism.

“Moriarty was only the tip of the iceberg, as he was the head of an entire criminal organization. He fancied himself a crime god with many fingers in many pies. He had dozens of lieutenants whom shared complete control over the criminal underworld from petty theft and carjacking to drug running and arms dealing. When he shot himself on the roof, he effectively cut off the hydra's head, but he had several people in place to assume his duties. After I jumped, I went from branch to branch of his criminal tree and started shaking things loose and having them... disposed of. The last piece of the puzzle was in London, so I had to come back. As I had been receiving reports of your whereabouts during my hiatus, I could not return to London without returning to you as well,” Sherlock had a cocky smile playing on his lips, still expecting me to praise his brilliance and heroism. I was determined to make him disappointed.

“So you've spent the last few years, gallivanting around the globe, pulling apart an entire criminal network, single-handedly I might add, one brick at a time?” I was pleased to see shock register on his face at my incredulous tone.

“Well, yes,” he spoke quietly.

I paused a few minutes to let the gravity of his story sink in then promptly slapped him hard across the face. A big, red hand print blossomed across his cheek and his jaw went slack, hand flying to his face.

“What the hell, John? You didn't tell me to move,” He stammered.

“No, and I won't apologize because you absolutely deserved that, Sherlock. You left me to mourn and grieve so you could put your life in danger for two fucking years when I could have helped you!” I was shouting by the time I finished. My hand was still stinging from striking his face.

“I'm sorry, John. I had to do it alone or Moriarty would have killed all three of you. Your performance had to be genuine. I'm so sorry,” Sherlock looked on the verge of tears and the hard edge that I had been doing the handling with softened.

“I could have taken care of myself, Sherlock. You should have taken me with you,” my voice was soft as if to balm the sting of the slap with my words. I was surprised when a flurry of limbs ended me with an armful of teary Sherlock.

“I wanted to contact you so badly, John. I wanted to hear you tell me I was brilliant for dismantling his network. I almost cracked after my funeral. Your asking for one more miracle had me wanting to go comfort you and kiss it better. I-”

“You wanted to kiss my pain away?” I leaned my head back and looked at the mop of unruly curls on my chest. I felt him nod against my chest, “Where was this before you died? If I counted how many times I wanted to lean over and kiss you after a case... You would be shocked,”

“I was embarrassed to broach the subject again after Angelo's. I basically told you to bugger off because I wasn't interested, so I was keen enough to watch from afar for as long as it took for either of us to work up the courage to do something about it,” he was mumbling into the center of my chest, but I heard every word loud and clear.

“Okay, Sherlock. I think I'm ready for you to tell me what happened last night,” I said with a smile, most of the anger had dissipated from my system.

“Where shall I begin? From my return to the city, or from our meeting at the bar?”

“Whichever you see fit, Sherlock. I'm all ears,”

 


	4. Sherlock Explains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock goes over the events of the previous evening, John begins to feel glad he can't remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to work on the regular updates. Glad you are still sticking by me. Also trying a new format, so bear with me.

     Sherlock sighed into his hands and ran his long, graceful fingers through his unruly curls. I looked at him, the picture of patience, expectantly as he chose where to begin. 

 

     "Well, I suppose I should begin at the beginning," he sighed again, "The only true way to start a story is at the beginning, and that's where I will begin," I chuckled silently to myself, he loved to hear himself talk.

 

     "Get on with it, Sherlock. You're stalling," I was beginning to get annoyed as the fidgeting and wringing of his hands increased, but still no words came to his mouth. 

 

     He sighed a final time and launched into his tale,"Well, when I... fell, it was in necessity to bring down the criminal organisation that Moriarty created. He had snipers with you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson in the cross-hairs, and the only way to spare you the trigger was to... Well to kill myself. I could not risk your safety in any capacity, John, so I jumped. As you know, I had plans in place when I reached the rooftop, every contingency accounted and planned for. It honestly killed me to have you holding my hand and desperately calling my name on the sidewalk, I never expected my death to affect you so. It seems as if my leaving hurt you more than I accounted for," he was beginning to ramble and I caught his wrist to stop the spiral of his thoughts.

 

     "No one really expected it to affect me, Sherlock. Hell, I didn't know it would leave me so... wrecked, honestly," I gripped his wrist and silently urged him to continue.

 

     Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth to continue, "When I was clear of Bart's, Molly had spare set of clothes for me and she shaved my head so I could leave out the front door without drawing attention to myself, I went straight to Heathrow and flew into Dublin, his hometown. He had a few people working for him there, keeping tabs on the UK and relaying information to him over a rather simple to hack mobile network. His suicide had not been discovered yet, so I managed to convince his henchman that I was, in fact, Moriarty where I was able to trick them into giving me basic details of the spread of his web before sending Mycroft's attack dogs after them. This led me to a rather large branch in America, but the primary factions were all in eastern Europe. Russia and Serbia, mostly," he pause so i could admire his cleverness. I nodded briefly, relishing the disappointment that played across his face at my non-verbal acknowledgement. Gesturing at him to get on with it, he continued, "America was simple really. I had a few friends in the CIA that gave me the equipment and disguises I needed to continue my eradication of the spider's web. Drug runners in El Paso and Miami got too greedy and I hung them out to dry," he smiled darkly, "I had honestly hoped it would have been less boring. Hardly any bloodshed, as I had to be reminded that I didn't have my usual, royal cleanup crew. From America, I used Mycroft's contacts in the KGB to set myself up an identity to infiltrated his network in Russia. Much more interesting over there. I managed to dispose of his lieutenants and henchmen with a concentrated explosion in the abandoned Czar's winter palace. Minimal damage to the structure,"

 

     "You did not set off a bomb in the winter palace, Sherlock!" I had to hide my smile at something so outrageous. True Sherlock style, caring more about the work than the priceless decorations of Czar Nicholas' winter home.

 

     "I did, actually. Vladimir was not happy with me, nor was Mycroft.  I tried to explain that it was a necessary risk, but they wouldn't have any of it," he frowned petulantly, I knew quite well that he felt he did nothing wrong, and could not understand why they were so upset. 

 

     "I'm sure they weren't, Sherlock. That would be like setting off a bomb in Buckingham palace, even when Her Majesty isn't there, it raises some eyebrows to say the least. A bit not good. Anyway, continue, I believe you had just finished in Russia,"

 

     "I know where I left off, John," he shook his head in admonishment, "Don't be dull. From Russia, I was airlifted into Serbia and set out to talk to some of Moriarty's imprisoned henchmen. They were unsurprisingly forthcoming, as being in a Serbian prison was not a suitable lifestyle their boss had landed them in. It got me into their inner ranks where, regrettably, I was discovered in my infiltration. I spent a few weeks locked in a cell beneath their capital city, their enforcers tried to get information out of me but I wouldn't crack, John. I stayed strong until Mycroft came to get me, saying I was needed back in London for an underground terror threat in relation to Moriarty. This is where the bar comes in, but I think you need some more tea before I go on," He eased my mug out of my clenched fingers, I tried to stretch them out, but they had spent too long in the same position and were stiff. I heard the kettle rattling on the counter top in the kitchen and the scrape of a spoon in the bottom of my mug. I briefly registered the clunk of my mug being sat down on the coffee table as long fingers began massaging my palms. I looked up at Sherlock and the intent look on his face caught me by surprise. 

 

     The expression was one I had seen many times before. It was his thinking face, where he was focused on a single point of space and trying to analyze all aspects of it. He must have sensed my hesitation because he suddenly looked up and I was smacked in the face with those quicksilver eyes of his. They expressed one thing. Fear. He looked like he was a little boy, afraid that what he was doing was okay. I wanted so badly to envelop him in my arms and never let go, smoothing his curls under my chin. Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the fear vanished and was replaced by a stubborn determination. His hands claimed mine and he pulled me in for a kiss. He let go of one hand and cradled the back of my neck, pulling me closer and crushing my lips to his. It was bloody perfect. My eyes fluttered closed as he slid his tongue over my lower lip, asking for permission to claim my mouth. Permission granted, soldier. It became an intimate dance of tongue on tongue, each of us fighting for dominance, but Captain Watson had officially taken over, funneling all residual anger into dominance over the kiss. Sherlock bowed into me, winding one hand into my hair and sliding the other from my wrist to my waist and I put up no resistance. I tried to clutch him into me and mold us into one person. I was almost certain that we were going to have sex right there, sod all, Sherlock decided he needed air and broke the kiss.

 

     My eyes were still closed but I could feel the worried gaze on my face, silently begging that it was all okay. I was smiling like a little boy on Christmas Day, silently begging that I was still awake and that had actually happened. I felt tentative hands on my shoulder and I chose that moment to speak, "Please tell me that was not a dream,"

 

     "No, it was very real John," He placed another small kiss on my lips to reassure me of his existence. 

 

     "Okay," I opened my eyes and looked at him, determined to hear the rest of the story, "Now about the bar last night?"


End file.
